Bone Song Read online

While the diva took the elevator—operated by a human attendant, suitably humble-looking—Donal went up the stairs three treads at a time. By the time he reached the third floor, his breath was coming in big, loud inhalations, and his body had sprung a layer of sweat: reacting to the promise of a hard run.

  But the diva's suite was on the forty-seventh floor, too high to sprint, so Donal walked along the corridor to the laundry elevator, where Levison was already waiting, holding the brass door open. Levison had come here ahead of the cavalcade, and he was looking almost sleepy as he said, “Which floor, sir?”

  But he had already pressed 47 and was hauling the door shut before Donal had finished stepping inside. The elevator car lurched, ascended a few feet and rattled, then rose more smoothly as it gathered speed.

  “Nice to see you looking calm,” said Donal.

  “If Commissioner Vilnar's got every confidence in you”—Levison spoke with a straight face—“then who am I to argue?”

  “You're absolutely right.” Donal pulled his Magnus a quarter way out of his shoulder holster, then pushed it back in. No problems there. “In your place, I'd be calm too.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I'm scared shitless. I'm looking forward to the whole thing being over, the diva off somewhere else on a plane, heading to Rio Exotico or someplace.”

  “Ah.” Levison nodded as the dial needle swung through 40 and the elevator's ascent slowed. “That's why the rest of us are relaxed. When you're strung out, everything's in control.”

  “That's nice to know.”

  The elevator car clanked to a halt, and Levison hauled the brass door open. “Looks like we're ready.”

  Twelve uniforms were posted along the corridor. Detectives on the floors above and below were already in place. Two of Donal's squad opened the door of the suite across from the diva's and grinned.

  “Hey, boss, Lev. You want anything from room service?”

  “For Hades's sake . . .”

  “Just kidding, Donal.”

  “Where's the—”

  “She's coming now.” Levison touched Donal's arm. “Here.”

  They walked down to the main elevator bank just as the diva's elevator arrived and the golden doors slid open. She stepped out, Maria daLivnova, diva extraordinaire.

  The hotel's general manager, Whitrose, was beside her, fawning.

  “Um, Miss daLivnova, you'll have met Lieutenant, um, Riordan? In charge of the . . . arrangements for your visit.”

  “No, I've not had the pleasure.” Her gaze on Donal was amused, nothing more.

  But she stopped his lungs and maybe his heart.

  So beautiful . . .

  And a target, unless he did his job properly.

  “Honored, ma'am.” Donal made himself speak. “If we could talk some more about the security prec—”

  “A glamorous detective. For me. My, how I'm touched.”

  Then she swept past him, followed by her two female assistants. Both women were employees of the Théâtre du Loup Mort, assigned by the management. They'd been in the limousine at the airport to meet the diva. Donal had interviewed both of them; afterward, Levison, who was much better at forming a rapport with strangers, had talked to them individually. Neither seemed to be a security risk; both of them were already looking as stressed on the surface as Donal felt inside.

  Glamorous detective.

  Donal watched the door to the diva's suite swing shut. He blew out a breath.

  That'll be me, all right.

  The first performance changed everything.

  Donal was standing in the shadowed interior of a box on the top level. Commissioner Vilnar was one of six dignitaries seated officially inside it.

  Down below, armed officers were obvious outside the actual performance hall; in here, two department snipers in plainclothes were in another box, their rifles at their feet. Levison was seated in one of the stalls. Other members of Donal's team were scattered among the audience.

  The visible presence outside presented the first layer of deterrence, but Donal assumed that a trained killer might spot the two snipers: their grim gazes continually swept the audience below. Neither one looked like an opera lover, despite the tuxedos.

  They were the second, also visible, layer. The third layer was Donal's squad. If Levison hadn't told him, Donal would not have guessed that the overweight gray-haired lady with the diamonds and fur stole was Sergeant Miriam Delwether, one of the department's finest shots.

  This was the opening night, and if there was to be an attempt on the diva's life, this would be the most dramatic time to stage it.

  The lights went down, shadows growing unevenly inside the auditorium, and Donal was alert for any shifts of movement, any gleam of reflected light—there. He had to force himself to relax—just opera glasses—and to keep scanning, looking for any sign of a weapon being brought to bear.

  Onstage, the production swirled into life. Colorful costumes were bright, almost blazing at the edge of Donal's peripheral vision: the Mort d'Alanquin's opening scene took place in a royal court amid pageantry.

  None of it helped Donal's vision to remain dark-adapted. He continued to scan the audience.

  Donal was half aware of the dancing onstage. As the scene progressed, the cast tended to stand still more and the singing became more important. When the diva stepped out onto stage left, at the entrance to the royal court, Donal's gaze snapped back and forth across the auditorium: stalls, circle, boxes, flicking to the stage itself, then back to the seats below.

  And then she opened her mouth to sing.

  Oh, my Death . . .

  The diva sang, her voice pure and crystalline, pulling the audience to her with her innocent inquiry: “Is this where the great king holds judgment?”

  When the solo was finished, the diva lowered her head as waves of applause washed through the auditorium. Donal rubbed his hand across his face and realized he had been aware only of her for the past several minutes as the aria proceeded.

  Minutes that could have been a lifetime.

  Just keep focused.

  It wasn't only the danger to the diva. If bullets started flying through the audience, if his own people opened fire, he would be held accountable. And if someone important died and their relatives claimed blood money, it was Donal, not Commissioner Vilnar, who would be served up as payment.

  But during the next solo from the diva, Donal—though he kept pushing himself to look elsewhere—kept returning his gaze to her, like an exhausted man whose chin keeps falling to his chest no matter how often he jerks it back upright, trying to maintain wakefulness.

  So much for security.

  During the intermission, Donal faded out of the box. He went downstairs and made his way backstage, past two hulking uniforms he knew well: the Brodowski Brothers. In the weight-lifting room, their fellow officers called them the Barbarians.

  “All clear, guys?”

  “Sure, but I think Al cried during the last song.”

  “Like you didn't.”

  Hades, they were as bad as him. Donal climbed up a flight of wooden steps and stepped through the heavy overlapping curtains.

  Men in brown coveralls were pushing heavy facades—castle battlements—on industrial-size casters. Cast members who had not spent much time onstage were murmuring to one another; the others would be sitting down and rehydrating in the changing rooms.

  A lithe young woman walked past, half naked, pulling on a peasant's blouse. Donal swallowed before forcing out a long exhalation.

  “Can I help you?” asked a stagehand.

  “No . . . Yeah. You see anyone here that doesn't belong?”

  “Er, don't think so.” The stagehand glanced at the young actress straightening her blouse, then back at Donal. “Apart from you, Officer. The rest of us are used to this.”

  “Must be a hard life.”

  “Don't talk so much about hard.” The stagehand winked. “Some of the boys might get excited.”

  H
ades . . .

  Donal took a last look around the stage. Up top, beyond the overhead spotlights, a gantry allowed objects to be lowered on near-invisible cables. There was a heavy man up there, script in hand, ready to call down: he was to be the ghost's voice in the next act.

  There were also two plainclothes officers, one of whom waved Donal a half salute, which Donal returned.

  All clear.

  Donal went back out to the Brodowski Brothers. “Guys, it's a good job you're holding the fort out here. It's hell backstage.”

  “Why's that, Lieutenant?”

  “All those naked actresses getting changed. Bosoms bouncing everywhere. My blood pressure's gone through the roof.”

  “Aw, man . . .”

  Third act.

  The plot was beyond Donal's comprehension, but he wasn't being paid to follow the story. Still, he kept glancing down at the stage.

  Commissioner Vilnar was equally entranced. The diva—whether singing solo or as now, part of an intricate duet as she called out the prince for his impetuous treatment of the populace—had captivated Donal along with everyone else in the theater.

  Fourth and final act.

  The entire company was onstage, enacting the battle scene and then the coming together of both sides to mourn. When the diva sang that heartrending farewell to the slain prince, Donal felt his nerves hooked out of his body, his soul dragged out by talons.

  Tears ran in silent floods down his cheekbones.

  No shots rang out. No one sprinted onto the stage and ran a dagger through the diva's heart. It was just as well, because neither Donal nor any of the officers, not even the spellbound snipers in the opposite box, could have processed the danger or made a move while that pure sublime sound continued to emanate from the diva's perfect mouth.

  And then the aria was ended.

  Donal bowed his head in silence. Backing out of the box, he wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand, and by the time he reached ground level he was practically normal. The two detectives stationed at the side entrance to the auditorium were still damp-eyed.

  “Be professional,” said Donal as he went through.

  “Sir.”

  From the side, Donal watched as multiple bouts of applause rose, ebbed, then washed higher once more. The company took bows, but the loudest cheers were reserved for the diva (and secondmost for the prince, or rather the man who sang that part, whose name a quarter of the audience and none of the police knew).

  Flowers arced through the air, hurled by enthusiastic operagoers, and Donal winced each time one of the snipers moved up in their box. But neither of them raised his weapon over the balcony's edge.

  A young girl brought a huge bouquet, taller than herself, up onto the stage. The diva accepted it and kissed the girl's cheek, which brought a fresh wave of applause.

  Finally, the curtain went down and stayed down. The lights came up, the sudden brightness forcing Donal to squint. Happy people, murmuring and chattering, threaded their way up the aisles to the exits, while Donal's tension was strung tight.

  He had been relieved in the emotional aftermath of the final aria. But now everyone's guard was down, and this was a danger moment. No one had said the diva had to be onstage for the killing to occur.

  “Stay alert, damn it,” he said to the two Brodowskis as he climbed backstage.

  “Huh? Right.”

  “Got it, Lieutenant.”

  There was a press of well-wishers in the diva's dressing room, champagne in a silver rune-chased bucket, woven heptagrams of blue orchids and indigo roses, and a chattering cacophony of congratulations. Levison, in his unassuming way, stood in the background, assisting with the bouquets.

  “Thank you so much,” Levison murmured to the florid son of a well-known businessman, owner of the Black Viper supermarket chain.

  The businessman's gaze didn't even flicker in Levison's direction.

  From the doorway, Donal watched and raised his eyebrows as Levison took charge of another bouquet. The slightest of quiet smiles passed across Levison's face: it meant everyone was ignoring him, unaware that his presence ensured the diva's safety in this room.

  Donal eyed the diva's visitors. Platinum skull-shaped cuff links, white-gold torques with diamond insertions . . . No overt weapons. And no body language that betrayed anything more urgent than the need to bask in the diva's presence.

  For a second, the diva noticed Donal and gave the tiniest of nods. He felt a sensation like a multitude of sprite fingers playing down his spine. Then the diva's attention was on a large woman in an ivory-white gown who was offering congratulations, and the moment was past.

  Donal forced his way back into the narrow corridor. Then he went back to the stage, checking angles and examining shadows. All clear. The Brodowski Brothers were now at the side exit, and Al—the slightly taller one—opened the metal door for Donal.

  Outside, the limo was ready. Two of Donal's squad, Petrov and Duquesne, dressed in their best suits, were standing by the vehicle. Their gazes roved the rooftops as well as ground level.

  “So far, so good,” said Duquesne. “We got Avram up on the roof. No problems there.”

  “No relaxing yet.”

  “Right.” Petrov spared a second to look at Donal. “And how many nights do we keep it up for?”

  Donal didn't answer. The question was rhetorical, and Petrov's tone was mild: not a complaint but an observation.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Because no one could keep alert forever.

  At the official reception afterward, there were canapés and hors d'oeuvres and who-knew-what savories on the buffet. Commissioner Vilnar looked resplendent in his cummerbund and even congratulated Donal on the arrangements so far.

  “Thank you, sir” was all Donal said, ignoring the final words: so far. He circulated around the party's edges, stopping to talk to Levison, who was nibbling from a plate of finger-size things that each appeared to end in a single black eye.

  “What are you eating, Lev?”

  “Haven't a clue, but they're lovely. Try one?”

  “Not a chance.”

  As he moved on, the diva noticed him and beckoned. There was a tight half circle of important-looking people focused on her.

  “And this,” the diva said, “is my glamorous personal detective. See how the city treats me?”

  “That's our pleasure,” said a Tristopolitan councillor, who wore his platinum chain of office atop his frilled dress shirt. “And you'd be Captain . . .”

  “Lieutenant Riordan. Glad to be of service, Councillor.”

  “Talent and beauty like this”—with a soft-fingered gesture—“must be preserved, no matter what.”

  “Oh, Edward. You flatter me.”

  Donal gave a tiny bow and stepped away. As he did so, the diva glanced at him, and perhaps he saw irony move inside those dark and perfect eyes. Then she returned her attention to the councillor, resuming their decorative and meaningless conversation.

  Glamorous detective.

  Staying on the periphery until the party ended at two A.M., Donal followed as the diva finally went down to the limo. The streets were eerie valleys almost devoid of people or cars as they drove to the Exemplar Hotel.

  At this hour, the flames dancing above the entrance moved slowly, as though tired, but the doormen were alert enough as they opened up for the diva. She and her two assistants climbed the steps, with Petrov and Duquesne on either side and Donal following.

  The night shift was in place, and Donal's duty was over. Still, he could not help taking a last walk around the hotel's deserted corridors, the darkened restaurant, and the quiet (though not entirely empty) residents' bar. Everything was clear.

  Donal took the hypoway back to his apartment, ignoring the drunk who stared at him for most of the trip. No one disturbed him as he walked to the apartment building and let himself in.

  Once in his own place, despite the lateness of the hour and the groan of the ancient plumbing, he showe
red with soap in the old tin stall. The water cut out before he had fully rinsed off.

  Donal toweled himself dry, then sat at the single unadorned wooden table with a bottle of Jacques Dauphin liquor. Twisting the cap off, he saluted the shadows of his room and drank a slug.

  It tasted like fire as it went down.

  Two more slugs, and he screwed the top back on. Then, feeling scratchy and unclean, he forced himself to lie down on the plain bed and look up at the ceiling, waiting for sleepiness to manifest itself.

  Some kind of glamour.

  At five A.M., on a deserted street two blocks from the Exemplar Hotel, a supine body moved along the sidewalk. Head supported by nothingness, heels dragging along the ground, he moved.

  Waves of dark refraction shimmered. Something was dragging the unconscious man.

  It pulled him around the corner, then released him. The man's head fell to the sidewalk with a sickening thud. His nose had been smashed, and there were torn gashes in his cheek.

  Beside his head, two expensive, elegant shoes glistened black. Their owner wore a gray skirt suit, and her hair and skin were pale.

  “What's this?” she said.

  *Lurking near the exemplar. I found him.*

  “And that's all?”

  *Hardly. Take a look in his pockets.*

  The woman glanced into the shadows. Then she went down on one knee and inserted her gloved hand into the beaten man's pockets, retrieving a dart gun, its loaded bolt coated with a dark fluid whose scent she recognized immediately.

  “Moonshade. Fatal dose.”

  The injured man also carried a stranglewire noose, treated so that it would tighten of its own accord when tossed around a victim's soft throat. It would contract to a fist's diameter—but slowly. Not a pleasant way to die.

  Straightening up, the woman held the weapons in her hand. The man moved a little, eyelids fluttering, then lapsed into stillness.

  “You got any suggestions, Xalia, as to what we do with him?”

  The darkness rippled, then:

  *Nothing at all.*

  “What do you mean?”

  *Just that.*

  The woman looked up and down the street, and then she saw it: two pairs of amber eyes glowing briefly in black shadows.

  “Just leave him? For them?”